And on the seventh day, God created Sundays because, basically, she had run out of good ideas. As my mate Kris sings, ‘There’s just something bout a Sunday.’ And that thing is a vague sense of ennui, for the French speakers among(st) us, and a general Wednesdayness for the linguistically-challenged.
For me, in PC times, Sundays used to start off well. The sex question sorted for the day, I would get downstairs early, wind up the battery on the computer and read a chapter of the Bible in Irish (the original language of God). Reading the Bible in Irish with a parallel English copy open for reference (not for cheating) is a real eye-opener. Quite apart from some of the unforgivable (ironic, given the reading material) grammar errors committed by the wee Taig priests who provided the Irish version, there are times when it is hard to see any connection between certain phrases in the Irish and English versions. Where the English had ‘eunuchs’, for example, the Irish equivalent meant ‘holy fornicators’, or something to that effect. I cannot be bothered looking it up now. But if you want to try it out for yourself, this is a great app. I must have a go when I am bored to find out what a French eunuch is. [Jean-Paul Gautier, surely? – Ed.]
KGB, Moscow, Putin, conspiracy. Sorry about that, just my wee experiment. Anytime I type in words such as those, the site gets a hit from Russia from the spy employed there to read the interwobble every day and chase up any reference to his employers. And speaking of the site [were you? – Ed.], have a look at the pic up there. I mean, are youse serious? We were motoring along nicely in our (apparent) attempt to flatten the curve and keep readers of this blog in manageable proportions and thus avoid over-burdening the medical services in various countries, and then what happens? (Rhetorical; no prizes for answering that.) See that spike in readership on 23 April? I will save youse the bother of checking your archives – youse would probably be as good at so doing as Darzán and the Headscratchers are at coming up with the original references I ask them for. What happened on that fateful day was that I stuck up a picture of a cat, and put the word ‘cats’ into the tags for the post. I mean, is that what it takes, really? Pictures of cats? Fruck that for a game of marleys. Cats are now banned from mention in this blog, although they are welcome to continue reading it.
[Any chance of a few call-backs? – Ed.] (What do you mean? – me) [Have a read of what you have written already and you will see what I mean – Ed.] (You mean you expect me to read this stuff as well as just typing it out off the top of my head? – me) [Well, it’s up to you, but … -Ed.]
OK. The proof that Irish is the original language of God comes from the Rastafarian word for God which, as even Question Girl knows, is ‘Jah’. Now this is so close in pronunciation to the Irish word for God ‘Dia’ that it is obvious (to me) that both derive from the antediluvian, spiritual language actually spoken but God, which is therefore obviously an early form of Late-Modern Irish. Ipso facto, QED.
So Sundays PC would start off well but go rapidly downhill before, during and after the weekly, compulsory attendance at an act of communal worship. (Mass, Shirleeen.) Part-time wife would get her knickers in a twist that we were going to be late, or that there would be no seats because there was a funeral on or it was one of the big, religious feasts. We were never late in our lives for Mass as I have the journey from the hacienda to the église timed to within an inch of its life: it takes 9.47 mins on a good day, and 8.97 mins on a Sunday, which is not a good day. But because part-time wife was brought up in house with a driver (her ex-father) who, being a confirmed pessimist, always factored in changing a flat tyre into every journey and who firmly stuck to the premise throughout his life that ‘on time’ actually meant half an hour early, she gets jittery and bitchy at my Japanese just-in-time delivery methods. Which, I might add, is not an ideal state of mind for her to be in in preparation for a celebration of Christian values. As for there being no seats, as it is a venial sin in the countryside for the congregation to use the first ten aisles in case they draw to attention to themselves, there are ALWAYS seats available, so long as you do not mind providing staring material for the rest of the crowd for the duration of the service. And then the actual Mass itself would bore the hind legs off a donkey. It is as if they (the clergy) have gone out of their way to make what is actually a riveting subject as arse-numbingly dull as possible. And the music! Why don’t they try something like this holy song from Counting Crows the odd time instead of those dreadful dirges about niceness and loving and comfort? That might at least wake the captive audience up.
Then, post-Mass, I would have to endure a 47.3 minute sulk from teenager #2 as I drove him to Lisburn for his judo class. That’s right, readers, I am going out of my way to give the ungrateful cur a lift to a venue where he will enjoy his hobby while I have to hang around for 1.57 hours doing nothing much except drinking coffee while waiting to give him a lift back home, and the wee bastard sits sulking in the passenger seat for the whole of the trip there as if I am forcing him to go to the class or something. I do not remember signing up for this level of treatment. He would be/used be more talkative (he could hardly be less) on the way home as he would have managed to beat someone up during the class and thus rid himself of some of his pent-up aggression.
All downhill after that for Sunday because of the pile of chores assigned to me. What with having to walk 0.53 of a mile to put the bins out for collection, an afternoon nap on the sofa while pretending to watch the live GAA match on the telly, 2.35 hours for my weekly bath (whether I need it or not) and then the realisation, near midnight, that I have not even started on reading the Culture Section in The Irish Times that I bought the day before it’s a wonder I even had time to draw breath – or a detailed landscape or portrait – on a Sunday. So, a drop of reading and into bed never any earlier than 01:58 with a whole 9-5, five day work week ahead of me.
But most of that – including Boresville, Arizona, Mass. (complicated geographical joke there for the Yanks) – is out the window now. Even more bountiful blessings from covid-19. Let’s all clap the virus itself the next time The Man tries to force us all out of our houses (which is illegal, according to the same Man) for a demonstration of totalitarian power. And Sundays are as a result quite pleasant now.
Oh. And Happy Birthday, Mo!